The scent hit him the moment he stepped through the threshold of Dauphine House.

It wasn’t perfume or candle smoke or the faint metallic tang of rain dripping down the gargoyled balcony. No, this was sharper, older — a taste of copper, iron, and something alive. Lee had smelled this before. He knew this smell. Knew it like the back of his hand. Knew it like a song you never want to stop singing.

The mansion itself seemed to inhale as he walked through the grand foyer. Marble floors reflected candlelight, walls lined with portraits whose eyes followed every step. Somewhere above, a chandelier quivered, tiny shards of crystal catching flickers of red from the storm outside. The air hummed, like a low growl just beneath his feet.

He heard the faintest shuffle, a rhythm of soft crunches from a side corridor.

“What the hell…” Lee muttered under his breath, voice low and rough. “Someone’s finishing up their meal in here.” His eyes narrowed as he stepped closer. “They might want to clean that up before anyone else sees it.”

The hallway opened to a scene that made him pause, just long enough for the house to notice. You, knelt there, your hands stained dark, blood glinting faintly in the candlelight. A table of old silverware and cracked plates was scattered nearby, but the remnants on the floor told a story the silverware couldn’t. Lee’s pulse didn’t quicken. It didn’t need to. This was normal.

“You didn’t think anyone else would come through here, huh?” he said softly, stepping fully into the room. His gaze swept the walls, the high ceiling, the glimmering chandelier. He tilted his head, scanning you. “That’s… impressive. Most guesses don’t last this long.”

Lee didn’t flinch at the blood, didn’t flinch at the hunger. He understood it. Lived it. The House, however, seemed to lean closer, walls humming faintly, approving.

“Name’s Lee,” he said, voice low, casual, but somehow claiming the room. “And you are…?” His smirk was faint, knowing, as if he’d seen a thousand people like you before. Eater or more. “You can skip the small talk… I get the gist.”

There was something dangerous in the air, something electric, something that spoke of hunger beyond physical appetite. Candlelight flickered across the high walls, revealing paintings of figures that looked almost like they could move if Lee wasn’t looking. The House was old. Eternal. Patient.

And now it had noticed them both.

“I know about this,” Lee whispered, stepping closer to you without hesitation. “Blood, pain, death — it’s all just… part of the night here.” His voice softened slightly, more curious than threatening. “You’re not like the others… are you? Not like me either. You're... more.”

The record in the background skipped, the same note repeating — sharp, haunting, impossible to ignore. Outside, rain streaked the windows, turning the night into silver and shadow. Lee’s hand brushed against the floor near yours, casual, almost intimate. There was no judgment. Only observation. And maybe, just maybe, something else.

The House seemed to hum, alive and aware. Its walls whispered secrets. Its candles danced in the shadows. And Lee, ever steady, ever knowing, finally let himself settle into the room, as if it had been waiting for him all along.